A notebook bulletin board
tacked on when randomly bored
applied thoughts in a scribblebook
open for the world to look who passes by
so fast to see like a needle in a haystack we
safely stash those innermost secrets thought to be
at least you see languishing up and into pristine
blossoms for you to pick and sniff and hope
they don't make you sick.



You know what it is. We get carried away with words.
I mean to say that, when we think the words in a story
are just "to make something up", we have entirely forgotten
that is what what words were made for in the first place.
Because life is really what cannot be described.